


mothers

by shortythescreen



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV), The Umbrella Academy (TV) RPF
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Childbirth, Dark, Drama, Eventually Post Near Pocalypse, Family Feels, Forced adoption, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Other, Religious Themes, Teen Pregnancy, sometimes?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-10-14 09:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortythescreen/pseuds/shortythescreen
Summary: On the twelfth hour of the first day of October, 1989, forty three women around the world gave birth. This was unusual in that none of them had been pregnant when the day began.Seven of them gave their children to Reginald Hargreeves.These are the reasons why.





	1. Number One

**Author's Note:**

> alright y'all, this all started when i was trying to write klaus/reader shit and instead, THIS came out. 
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy because i already have ideas for everyone else.

Ivana has yet to the name the child.

Her friends, if they can even be called that, have been badgering her to do so for hours. The only reason she thinks of them as such is because when her belly suddenly ached with her skin stretching too much, too quickly, they all dove into action.

She’s in their debt for that, but God, if the women from swim class don’t stop clucking about how she should pick a name, she’s going to scream.

The hospital room Ivana’s holed up in is stuffy and her sort of friends have tried to spruce it up in the few hours she’s been here. Yelena bought a bouquet of flowers that explodes with every color Ivana can think of. They remind her vaguely of fireworks, only without the noise, but Yelena seems to be trying to make up for that.

Nadja, a fat, toad of a woman, who joined swim class in a bid to lose weight, bought balloons. They say things like congratulations! And good health! And other sayings that maybe an expectant mother would have been grateful for. They float idly next to the bed, tied around the neck of the vase the flowers are in.

Teacher, perhaps the most sympathetic of the group of hens that hasn’t left her alone since the birth, bought the baby clothes. Three little onesies, that stretch from the tip of Ivana’s middle finger all the way to her elbow. They come in soft, cottony swathes of blue, because it’s a boy, Ivana thinks, she gave birth to a boy, one that she had no intention of having for many, many years, and goodness, if she weren’t well educated, she would think that little kiss on the cheek she gave Mikael was what sealed her fate.

But she knows better, and maybe that’s what’s so confusing about all of this because, well, she hasn’t done _that_ in more than a few months, and babies are supposed to grow in your belly over the course of nine months, not nine _minutes_.

Ivana stares out the window. The streets below are swarmed by cars that have reporters filtering out of them like clowns. They all snap pictures of the hospital, of the windows, asking the doctors and policemen questions. The police had to be called about an hour ago, as the reporters had crowded the exit of the ambulance garage. She can’t hear them, but she’s sure she can take an educated guess at what it is they’re wanting to know.

_Who is the father of the baby? Can we have the name of the mother? How old is she? Is the child healthy? What could have caused such a phenomenon? Is the mother a virgin? Is she married? What is the baby’s name? _

Ivana is so sick of thinking of its name.

“Could you all be quiet, just for a little?” Ivana asks, catching the attention of the cooing and tittering women. For all they tried to be a comfort to Ivana while they were waiting on an ambulance and when they accompanied her and the child on their journey from vehicle to gurney, they have been very preoccupied with the baby.

She shouldn’t be angry about that. New babies are exciting. She is just so exhausted and if she continues to listen to their prattle about how the child has her nose, or what a head of hair it has, or just how darling it’s going to look in those new clothes, teacher, my goodness, she’s going to throw a fit.

“I’m sorry,” she says, when she realizes the silence has stretched for far longer than what may be polite. “I’m just… Very tired.”

“Of course, dear girl,” Nadja ribbits. Yelena has now preoccupied herself with the baby, for the first time quiet since they arrived at the hospital. “You must want time with him alone. Do tell us if you need some help arranging yourself for a feeding, it can seem so intimidating when it’s new-”

“Indeed,” Teacher says, agreeably interrupting Nadja, then turns to shoo her students from the room. She places a hand on the door knob, smiling over her shoulder in a way that makes a hard lump form in Ivana’s throat. “If you’d like, Ivana, I have your parents’ phone number from when you first registered. I can give them a call-”

“No!” Ivana exclaims, so loudly that she’s sure the press has heard. Teacher’s thin, kind smile doesn’t wane, though her eyes look a little heavier. Perhaps with tears? Or maybe that’s Ivana, because she’s reaching up to wipe at her face. “No, no, no. I’ll- I’ll call in a little, once- once I’ve named it.”

“Him, Ivana,” Teacher quietly corrects.

“Of course. Him. Once I’ve named him.” Ivana mindlessly chatters, rubbing a hand over her face, and she’s so, so glad that during their wait for the ambulance, Yelena had braided her hair out of her face. She should thank her.

“If you need anything, we’re right outside,” Teacher says, and it’s the first time someone has addressed her needs only since this nightmare began. She nods, unblinking as not to let more tears fall as Teacher leaves the room.

Once she’s alone, she hunches over her lap, pressing her face into her hands. How is she going to explain this to mama? She’ll be so disappointed. Papa will never believe that she didn’t do the thing you needed to do in order to have a child. Will they disown her? They could. If they did, they’d stop paying her tuition, then how would she educate herself? Get a job? Support herself?

As if reminding her it’s no longer just herself she will be supporting, the baby whines from its place in the sterile crib next to her bed. The doctors ran every test imaginable on the child when they first arrived – and despite how odd its birth had been, they found it to be entirely, tauntingly healthy.

Ivana raises her head, staring at the crib. The child doesn’t make anymore noise, like it is waiting for her to answer. As if possessed, Ivana rises from her seat, shuffling over to the crib.

It feels like approaching the edge of a cliff. She isn’t sure what she’s expecting when she peers over the edge of it – if it’ll be rocks, or the ocean, or the pits of hell.

For all she couldn’t stand their incessant noise, the women from swim class were right. It has her nose. Or, at least, she thinks it does, a memory of her own baby photos rising to the forefront of her mind as she examines the child.

It’s so tiny. Bigger than the average baby, according to the doctor assigned to her, but Ivana wouldn’t know. She has no brothers or sisters and can only vaguely remembering being introduced to a baby cousin, of whom she doesn’t know all that well, and hasn’t seen in many years.

The thought brings fresh tears to her eyes. She wishes that she did. She wishes that she had anyone she could talk to right now that knew her, that cared only for her, and not for this odd little thing that came out of her. Teacher comes close but she didn’t buy Ivana clothes, she bought the baby clothes.

Her father will be furious when he finds out and her mother will be so disappointed. She hasn’t spoken with her aunt or cousin in many years, and she can only imagine their interest in her now would be so they could speak with the unrelenting press.

Her family is a torn tapestry, pieces fluttering about, and the people that she is sewn to feel as though they’re going to be torn away once they find out about the child. For all the women outside are offering to help her, to give her advice on how to be a mother, she feels hopelessly lonely.

The solitude comes from everyone’s joy, all their curiosities about the baby and just how much they all seem to adore it. Everyone in Moscow, maybe even everyone in Russia, wants to see the baby. They want to love it, and know it, and Ivana, who should want that most of all, feels so infinitely alone.

And only the baby is here to give her company. 

The tears she has been beating back since Nadja first held up the baby to her at the pools rebelliously spill down her cheeks and that lump reforms in her throat. She reaches a trembling hand out, letting it hover just shy of the baby’s arm. She’s only held it once since they arrived, too afraid to look for long. She fears if she pays it any mind, it will take residence in her head, and she will suddenly feel obligated to be a mother.

The baby’s fist is no bigger than the width of two of her fingers. Its long nails look like talons and it wraps its little hand around her pointer finger.

Ivana’s lip trembles as she sniffles around her tears, desperately trying to choke them down as she stares at it. It has blonde hair. No one in her family has blonde hair. Perhaps the devil did? Perhaps he is the one who did this to her. The child certainly feels like the spawn of the devil.

“You’re going to ruin my life,” she sobs, voice barely above a whisper. The baby says nothing, just continues to gurgle and act the picture of innocence. 

And it is. Perhaps it won’t mean to, or it will do its best to make it up to her, but its grubby little hands will seek her love, and attention, and support, and that means she cannot focus on friends, or boys, or studies. Ivana was so looking forward to her studies.

She does not even know who the father may be. There is no person to hand the child off to, to dump the little menace on and continue on with her life.

“You don’t even care,” Ivana hisses at the baby, voice trembling with tears, “you’ll ruin my life and you don’t even care.”

The child, predictably, says nothing. Ivana cries harder.

The sun eventually begins to grow dark and things finally begin to quiet down. The bustle of doctors and nurses seems to slow to a crawl. The reporters that have been hammering away at the doors have now taken to camping on whatever parts of the sidewalk aren’t yet blocked off by police cars. Ivana’s physician checks on her several times, though tells her that after they do the necessary tests to make sure the boy can leave, she will most likely be discharged.

The ladies from swim class eventually leave. They all filter into the room as they go, each saying their goodbyes to her, and to little whatever its name may be.

“He looks like an Aleksei,” Nadja says, rubbing her chins in thought, “Aleksei would be a good name.”

“Maybe,” Ivana carefully says, though she doesn’t care at all.

“I can’t believe she hasn’t decided,” Nadja mutters to Yelena as they make their way out. Teacher stays behind for a moment.

“I haven’t called your parents, Ivana,” she says, and Ivana nods, knowing she wouldn’t. “You should, though, and soon. It will only be so long before you and the boy must leave the hospital and the press are like vultures.”

That advice is sage enough. It would be dangerous for Ivana to go back to her dorm with her miracle baby, for the press to catch a snapshot of her face to print on the papers. She should have someone to put a drape over her head, to cover her and the child so that neither of their likeness may be seen by the media.

“Yes,” Ivana says, with no real intention of calling her parents.

The nurses desperately try to get her to hold the baby throughout the night. It is not easily upset and does not seem particularly hungry – though Ivana would not know as she is unable to breast feed – after all, she had only been pregnant a mere few minutes. Her body had had no time to prepare for feeding a baby – and she is quietly relieved for that, uncertain she would want to in the first place.

However, when it does cry, it doesn’t seem to stop. Ivana could use a good night’s rest after the day she’s had. However the little devil seems intent on keeping her awake, screaming its hellish wail just when her eyes begin to flutter. It is intent on fulfilling her prophecy, she thinks, every time it begins to cry again.

“He could do with a mother’s touch,” One mouthier nurse tells her, the third time the child begins screaming.

“I’m very tired,” she tells her, “the doctor says it’s not good for me to walk around yet.” She doesn’t tell her that she had earlier. Or that the doctor told her she could make quick trips without any risk.

Ivana knows the nurses are frowning upon her disinterest in the baby. They won’t say it, unwilling to be impolite, but she spies the way they turn their noses up, huffing and puffing as they pick the wailing infant up throughout the night.

It is after her sixth attempt at sleep that Ivana sits bolt upright. A nurse must be stationed outside now, because as soon as the boy begins to whimper, in comes another.

“How do I get it to stop?” She asks. The nurse pauses, hands frozen midair above the baby.

“…He could do with a mother’s touch,” the woman murmurs and Ivana stares blankly. The nurses must be gossiping about her, she thinks, because this woman is clearly not the same impolite, mouthy one that said the same thing only a few hours earlier.

“Will he stop crying if I hold him?” Ivana demands.

“Maybe,” the nurse says. Maybe is good enough, Ivana decides, thrusting her arms out. She’d been certain when she finally agreed to holding the baby, if she ever did, the nurses would make a grand show of their happiness. Yet, the nurse almost seems more upset, lifting the weeping infant from its crib.

Ivana can’t help the bile that rises in her throat as the woman scuffs over, holding the baby close to her breast. The deep worry lines in her forehead tell Ivana that she’s frightened of what she’ll do to the baby. Ivana wants to tell her that if she was going to kill it, she would have done it after it tore through her in a swimming pool.

The nurse sets the baby down delicately down in her arms. She adjusts them so that they are less comfortable for Ivana but more fit to hold the baby, and finally, Ivana has another good look at it.

To her chagrin, the child does calm. Its squalling face is bloated and red, like a balloon, and its blonde eyelashes only serve to emphasize what looks like a rash. Its eyes are blue, like hers.

The nurse hasn’t breathed since she placed the baby in Ivana’s arms. She glances up at her and the look on her face is not one of fear, like Ivana originally assumed, but one of… Hope?

Ah. Of course. Ivana is clever enough to know when she was mistaken. The nurse hadn’t been afraid that Ivana was going to throw the baby, or hurt it, but that she would still be indifferent once it was in her arms. The nurses wanted Ivana to hold the baby not so she’d get it to shut up, but so she would suddenly feel a flood of motherly affection.

She looks back down at it. It doesn’t go to sleep, but the redness in its face is beginning to fade. Its eyes are not keen, or clever, or curious, like so many people try to describe baby’s eyes. They just are and Ivana stares into those little blue rivers. She is not swept away in their depth, she is not smothered by new love, or an ache bound by blood.

The embrace doesn’t even make her think of it as a him.

Still, she settles back against the bed, holding the baby against her chest, and staring at the ceiling.

“When will it fall asleep?” She asks the nurse. The nurse lets go of her bated breath, trading it for something akin to a harried gasp, like she’s discovered something terrible. She ignores the woman’s mortification, waiting patiently for her to answer.

The answer comes within about an hour but by then, Ivana is wide awake, arms tired from the holding the baby. It is still dark outside. She climbs out of bed to sit in the same seat she’d been at earlier, only this time, the little thing is now festering on her arms, like it is trying to grow.

The flicker of lights above catches her attention. She glances up and, in the distance, she sees what she is sure is an airplane, shooting across the night sky like a star. Perhaps, she will make a wish upon it, hope that the devil has had his fun and will take his sick little joke of a child back now. It takes her a moment to realize the plane is coming towards the hospital.

She doesn’t panic, like the reporters below do. In fact, Ivana is rather curious, because she’s certain if the plane were crashing, it would have done so moments after she’d seen it. These things don’t happen in slow motion, even if movies tell you otherwise.

She knows that now, firsthand.

Ivana is right not to panic, as the plane—helicopter, she realizes upon closer inspection—flaps loudly above. The baby doesn’t even start at the loud whipping of the blades of the aircraft, nor does it seem shaken by the way the hospital rumbles as the helicopter lands on top of it.

The man that steps out and demands to see her is odd looking, with a monocle and a mustache and a cap that tells her he had been piloting the helicopter himself. When he arrives in her room, he says something in English. She only stares, trying desperately to remember some of her language studies. His patience is very thin, she thinks, because not less than thirty seconds later he is saying something in Russian.

“How much do you want for it?”

Ivana stares at him. This odd man, with his odd face, and his odd helicopter, has appeared before her like some sort of avenging angel. Certainly, he must be, if the baby that came out of her is the spawn of the devil. His glare is unhospitable, unhappy, but his words wrap around her like a scripture.

For the first time since her belly swelled, since she polluted clean, chlorinated water with blood, since she gave birth to the thing in her arms, Ivana smiles.

Nothing, she wants to tell him. Take it. Ivana wants to tell him to take the baby, to run as far away as his feet can carry him, and to forget that the boy ever had a mother to begin with.

Instead, she smartly names the price of her tuition, and her parents’ mortgage.

“Done,” the man says, offering her a decisive nod. “I will have the nurses bring up the paperwork.”

“Wait!” She says as he twists on his heel. He is so fast paced, so hurried. She supposes angels have better things to do than fill out adoption papers. “Can you… Can you make sure my name doesn’t hit the press?”

“Certainly,” the angel replies, and Ivana is certain then, yes, this is an angel, “you will sign a non-disclosure agreement as compensation for that. The adoption will be closed, and you will have no contact with the boy again. Is this understood?”

Ivana doesn’t even look at it as she nods, beaming like God has finally shined His redeeming light upon her.

“Yes, sir,” she agrees, “though I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

“I do. But ask,” he replies.

“What will you name it?”

There is no moment that passes between them, no shared affection for the child. The man doesn’t even seem to need to think about it, as though he’d known the second he heard of her and the miracle baby from hell.

“Number One,” he says decisively, and Ivana takes pause at that.

She looks down at the baby, at the boy, eyes flickering over his face. Her smile has dimmed, just a smidgen, and though she is overjoyed that she will not have to raise this baby, to be called mama far too young and so suddenly, the name does seem a bit droll.

Aleksei might suit him better, she wants to say to the man. Instead, she offers him the baby, and shoves the thought from her mind.


	2. Number Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE
> 
> Hi! Sorry that this update has taken so long, finals are kicking my ass!!!! 
> 
> here is the story of lil bb diego!!! a biiiiiggggg thank you to my very best friend @adreamare for helping me with some authentic mexican culture! i could've made diego colombian to make my life easier but. you know. i'm stubborn. 
> 
> trigger warnings for this chapter: malicious use of religion, semigraphic childbirth scene, also semigraphic body. changing. morphing? basically the description of someone going from not pregnant to pregnant in a matter of minutes lol. 
> 
> translations for this chapter will be at the bottom! though a majority of the stuff in here isn't too bad.

The day begins as normally as ever. Felicita wakes up earlier than the rest of her family, rising just as the morning sun begins to creep over the horizon. She does her best to climb from bed without disturbing her husband, though she knows he will wake very soon. 

Felicita puts on her house slippers and makes her way out of their room to begin preparing breakfast. Her husband, Javier, has the day off work and due to the rarity of that, they decided to keep the girls home from school.

While sifting through the cabinet, Felicita notices they are missing a few things and running low on others. She will have to run to the Mercado once everyone is settled in for the morning.

One by one, her family filters out of their rooms while she quietly cooks. She doesn’t have to look up to know the order in which they come – Carmen always wakes up before her other girls and because she and Aldonsa share a room, it isn’t long until her Aldita follows. Then, Javi will wake up, poke his head in on baby Mercedes and little Marisol, and shake them gently awake to join everyone for breakfast.

Like clockwork, Carmen and Aldonsa shuffle out, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek and a half mumbled _good morning, mami, bendiciones_. Shortly following them is Javi, holding Mercedes up on his hip and guiding a half asleep Marisol to the table.

Javier is a great deal older than her. They were married seven years ago, when she was eighteen and he was just shy of forty three and Aldonsa was born six months later. He’s spent a majority of their marriage at work and she’s spent a majority of it raising the girls.

She doesn’t mind it, but she knows that the girls get far more excited to see her than their father, and the novelty of his presence in their lives bothers Felicita. He sleeps in the next room over, they call him papi, yet they don’t often get the same quality time with him that they do Felicita. Javi deserves that, the _girls_ deserve that. 

Javier greets her with the same kiss and blessing as Aldonsa and Carmen. Felicita hands him his coffee, mentioning that she is going to run to the market after breakfast.

“I want to come!” Aldonsa crows, suddenly wide awake as Felicita places a plate in front of her.

“Callate,” Marisol mutters from her place at the table. Felicita shoots her a sharp look, though her gaze turns expectantly to Javi. He says nothing, instead setting his coffee down on the table and strapping Mercedes into her highchair. Felicita’s jaw ticks.

“You’re not supposed to say that word, Mari,” Aldonsa loudly whispers as Javier briefly shuffles out of the room, presumably going out front to grab the paper. 

“Me too! Mami, can we go?!” Carmen chimes, always eager to do everything her big sister does. Felicita can never tell if it’s because she looks up to her or if it’s sibling rivalry, but she likes to think it’s the former.

“Don’t you want to spend time with papi today?” Felicita asks and both girls swivel around to face their papi as he reenters the kitchen, newspaper in hand.

“Papi, can we go? Mami will be fast!” Carmen bribes as Javi ambles to the table. He takes his place at the head of it then promptly opens the paper, shielding his face from view.

“Only if mami says it’s okay,” Javi says through the paper and the breath that Felicita didn’t know she was holding comes out as a sigh. For all he seemed eager to keep the girls home last night, she hoped he would be a little more eager to spend time with them. The girls barely seem to notice, though, so Felicita smothers her disappointment as they beg.

“Please, mami, please!”

“Alright, alright, but we’re not getting any new toys!”

Felicita is grateful they live in walking distance of the marketplace as Mexico City traffic never seems to cease. The honk of horns and the shouts of regular marchanes cracking jokes at each other from across the street is the melody Felicita and the girls are greeted with as they stroll down the sidewalk.

Aldonsa and Carmen run a little ahead, pushing their carrito in exaggerated zig zags. Their shoulders bump and they cackle, talking animatedly about racing on days that Felicita has to bring more than one.

Felicita hides the little tick in her jaw when she sees that Carmen is wearing mismatched socks. She’d handed Javi most of her outfit, having not even thought about her socks. She takes a deep breath, knowing no one will notice but her, but. Still. It makes Felicita worry about leaving Marisol and Mercedes alone with him, which is silly, because Javi is an adult and their papi.

When Felicita calls them closer to her, the girls slow so she can catch up. Conveniently, they stop in front of Carlos’s cart, and Felicita smiles as he offers them candy.

“You really want them to run away from me, hm?” She asks and Carlos grins. Most of the marchanes know her and her family though Carlos especially has a soft spot for the girls.

“A little workout will do you good. You already lost the baby weight, now you just have to tone up,” Carlos replies and Felicita laughs as Carmen and Aldonsa split whatever chocolate nightmare Carlos has handed them.

Carlos always pays her the nicest compliments – when she’d asked the hairdresser to paint her hair a brown that was a little more red, he’d told her it made her eyes look great. When she’d decided to color her lips a different red than normal, he’d asked where she found the shade. He always seemed to be paying attention to her. She tried to blame it on the closeness in age, and not whatever complicated thing it could be.

“What am I getting you today, Felicitita?”

“Nothing. You’ve done enough,” she sighs, and Carlos rolls his eyes, smirking as he leans over the edge of his cart.

“Watch when you finally have some boys. Then I’ll really be trouble,” he grins and Felicita’s smile dulls just a tad. Carlos notices. “Mierda, mami, I didn’t mean to- I just meant- I’m gonna shut up.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Felicita says, waving her hand, because the girls are really enjoying their chocolate and Carlos is always so nice. She shouldn’t be so sensitive. “I have to go. Javi is home today and I want the girls to actually _see_ him instead of being out.”

Carlos’s smile is sheepish, apologetic, and she waves to him before ushering the girls forward so they can get into the thick of the Mercado.

Felicita loves her girls – Aldonsa is so creative, always bringing home artwork for her to pin on the walls and put in scrapbooks. She’s no Frida Kahlo, but Felicita hopes she can feed that colorful mind of hers, so that she may never lose it.

Though Carmen tries to do everything Aldonsa does, she is organized and meticulous in a way that her messy sister never seems to be. She once reorganized their clothes so that Felicita couldn’t find anything for them to wear until Carmen explained to her the system.

For all Marisol is difficult, she’s so fun. She’s only four and she’s right at the age where she wants to do everything on her own and try new things. Which is adorable, up until Felicita finds her covered in flour and water after deciding she wants to make arepas like mami.

Then there’s Mercedes and even though she’s so little, she has such a personality, kicking her feet whenever Felicita tries to push them into shoes. She has a bad case of the mamities, crying and screaming whenever Felicita leaves her sight – she’s sure Javi is dealing with that now – but she’s small enough that Felicita can still entertain it.

Felicita love, love, _loves_ her girls. But she has four of them and she’s wanted a boy since she started having children.

The reminder that she doesn’t have one sits bitterly in the back of her mind. Javi is getting older, his body beginning to feel the wear of age, and though she would never tell him, she fears it will become more difficult for them to have children. He seems content with their girls and Felicita is too, but she wants a boy.

Felicita tries not to let it dampen her mood, instead focusing on what she needs to buy as she and the girls traverse the busying Mercado.

“What do we need, mami?” Carmen asks and Felicita slides her fingers through the ringlets that spring from her head.

“Toys,” Aldonsa pipes, dark eyes flitting around in search of a cart with dolls, or crayons.

“No,” Felicita says, grabbing her oldest by the shoulder. “We need masa, peppers, mangos, lemon…”

“Oh! Oh, can we get the mangos?! And the lemon?” Carmen asks, turning excitedly to tug on her mami’s skirt. “I know Señor Gonzalez’s cart! Please, mami, we’ll stay together! Please?!”

Felicita cranes her neck. From her place, she can see Señor Gonzalez’s cart. Not far from it is one of the marchanes that sells a variety of items. If she browses that while the girls get the fruit, she can keep an eye on them.

“Okay, but _only_ to Señor Gonzalez’s cart,” Felicita says, eyeing Aldonsa more than Carmen as she speaks. Carmen is obedient, will do whatever her mami or papi says down to the last syllable. She’s easily tugged away from that tendency by her big sister, whose wandering eye and wandering mind often take her in directions she isn’t supposed to go in.

The girls squeal and pluck one of the bags from the carrito, running off. Felicita trails a fair distance behind, watching them weave through the gathering crowd. She stops at the cart she’d spotted before and finds with a little relief that she still has a very clear view of Aldonsa and Carmen from her place in front of it.

Keeping one eye on the girls, Felicita mindlessly browses the items before her. There are some dresses in sizes that she can no longer squeeze into, along with some boxes of glowsticks. A little further along, she finds some baby clothes, and the soft cottony blues and pinks catch her attention.

Felicita glances over and sees the girls chattering excitedly with Señor Gonzalez. His eyes catch her own and he winks, so she doesn’t mind really browsing the selection before her.

Mercedes is growing so quickly. It feels like yesterday that Felicita was waddling around the Mercado, waving to marchanes who were all taking guesses at what she was going to have. Her fingers gingerly brush the little pink onesies, warmth in her chest as she remembers holding her fourth daughter in her arms.

Mercilessly, her eyes drift over to the downy blues. Her lips press together and to the left as she longingly gazes at them.

Her wistful thoughts become a dull ache in her chest. It seems to travel through her and Felicita reaches up to toy with the gold cross around her neck. She pauses, her hand clenching into a fist around the cross as that ache takes root in her lower abdomen and becomes a festering tug.

The breath leaves Felicita’s lungs and she tilts into the table, meaning to rest her hands on top of it. Instead, she slams them down, making the merchandise jump. The tablecloth bunches in her fist and when she finally places a hand on her belly, she finds it swelling out of her blouse.

“Oh, I just love babies!” A voice says and Felicita lifts her watery eyes to meet the cheery gaze of the woman running the cart she’s keeping herself upright with. “When are you due, mami?”

Babies. Due. Today had been so _normal_, what changed? The air punches from her lungs and that gnawing pull makes her belly cleave through her blouse and skirt. The woman’s cheerful gaze drops to Felicita’s now ill-fitting outfit.

“Mami?” Aldonsa’s says on her left and through eyes trembling with tears, she looks down at her daughters. Carmen is clutching Aldonsa’s hand, standing half a step behind her, but both of their eyes water when they meet her dizzied gaze. “_Mami?_”

Felicita feels like a balloon filled with too much air, visibly bloated and just short of bursting. The hand on her belly is pushed further out and she feels a hand on her arm. Her unsteady gaze turns, and she finds, with a start, that Carlos is standing next to her, handsome brow furrowed in concern. When had he moved from his cart?

“Felicita?” He says, then something bursts beneath her hips, the throbbing pull finally slowing to a stop. The waterfall down her leg is thick and hot and when she looks down, she sees a very dark puddle forming around her feet and soaking through her skirt.

Oh. That’s blood.

The floor is yanked from beneath her and Carmen screams. She reaches out, meaning to grab her daughters, tell them that she’s okay, that there’s just a baby, a real baby, one she’d had no sign of until minutes before, coming. Instead, her fist slams on the pavement and she screams at the top of her lungs.

There’s a crowd and she’s sobbing as her body strains to accommodate a baby that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. Her mind is torn, half groping for her girls, half trying to wrap around the fact that she’s in labor. That there’s another baby coming.

The woman that asked when she was due enters her field of vision and she’s speaking rapidly to someone over Felicita’s head. Someone bends her legs up, spreading them, and if she didn’t feel as though she were being split in half, she might have asked for a blanket to cover herself.

Instead, she screams again, feeling as though her whole body is being wrung out like a wet towel. She knows how this goes, has felt this before, but never so suddenly, never so quickly. Someone slides her head into their lap and grabs their hands. She crushes them both with a white knuckled grip.

She feels the baby coming and groans, hot tears falling down her cheeks as she pushes. The woman scrambles, only half knowing what’s going on.

Just as quickly as the baby grew, it comes. Felicita flops back onto the pavement as the force that had been contorting her insides releases her. She sucks in lungful after lungful of air, staring bleary eyed at the sky.

The person behind her is stroking her hair, murmuring, and as her ears stop ringing, she hears what they’re saying.

“Get me a blanket!”

“Where is that ambulance?!”

“She wasn’t pregnant a minute ago…”

“It’s a boy.”

It’s a boy.

Felicita raises her head, face wet with sweat. The baby wails and another woman she doesn’t recognize is using her hand to spread water from a bottle over the little boy.

The little boy. It’s a boy.

“Congratulations, Felicita,” the person behind her is Señor Gonzalez, and he sounds as hesitant as everyone else seems to be.

She can hear the ambulance finally approaching and the marchane shuffles over as the baby is mostly cleaned. They wrap him in a little blue blanket and Felicita automatically reaches out to take him.

Felicita should be more panicked than she is.

She’s vaguely aware of that, the thought buzzing idly in the back of her mind. Politely, it doesn’t force its way to the front, almost hesitant to steal the attention from her very first son. Or maybe it’s waiting for the shock to leave.

“Felicita,” someone says and she looks up to see Carlos. Aldonsa and Carmen are cowering behind him, their little faces buried into his shirt.

“I’m going to walk the girls back and tell Javier what’s going on,” Carlos says, eyes flickering from her to the baby. “You… You okay?”

Felicita’s eyes flutter dazedly. Is she okay? Her body aches, horrendously sore from something that normally takes months happening within minutes. Her throat is hot, the lower half of her body is sticky and stinky with blood, and she hates the amount of people that have seen her this way.

Her gaze shifts to the little baby in her arms, his little arms jerking, his head still long from being squeezed out of her. Her gaze drops to the half-parted blanket, where she can see that he’s indeed a boy.

Felicita beams, a fresh set of tears rising in her eyes.

“I’ve never been better.”

“Mami,” Aldonsa says, hesitantly approaching her, and Felicita looks at her trembling little face, sticky with tears. “Are you okay, mami?”

“I’m okay, mijita,” Felicita murmurs and Aldonsa sniffles, bending down to nuzzle her little head against Felicita’s cheek. If she weren’t so tired, she’d try to hold her too, and call Carmen over. “Go with Carlito. He’s going to take you to papi while your brother and me go to the hospital.”

The ambulance arrives, red and white lights flashing. Aldonsa’s lower lip trembles as Carmen slowly creeps forward, tip toeing to look over her sister’s shoulder at her baby brother. 

“We wanna stay with you.” Carmencita says and Felicita hums.

“I’ll be home soon, mijas, they just need to make sure I’m really okay,” she murmurs, shifting the baby around in her arms so she can reach out with one sticky hand. She runs her hand down Carmen’s cheek, before squeezing Aldonsa’s arm. “I love you both.”

“We love you too, mami,” Aldita whimpers as Carlos gathers she and Carmen up. He glances at her once, before moving backwards to allow the paramedics to take her.

The paramedics clean her and the baby as much as they can. They check her for tearing and ask her questions about her delivery. Was the baby early? Has she received any prenatal care?

“I wasn’t pregnant this morning,” Felicita says, shocking some of the crew. Others look doubtfully at one another. “So no, I haven’t received any prenatal care.”

They arrive at the hospital in a flurry of questions and moving pieces. The nurses ask her if she has an emergency contact, if her house has a phone, and she tells them that someone is informing her husband of what happened. They ask if she has received any prenatal care again and, a little frustrated, Felicita tells them no.

“I’m telling you,” she says, “I wasn’t pregnant when I woke up this morning. You can ask anyone that was at the Mercado – one minute, I had no belly, the next, I was giving birth.”

“Of course, señora, sometimes you might not be aware you’re pregnant,” a younger nurse says and Felicita bites her tongue to keep from snapping at her. As they’re wheeled into a room, a nurse appears, asking to take the baby for a little bit. She’s hesitant to let her.

Felicita wants to hoard him for the little bit of time they’ll have together before the questions crop up. She wants to be amazed that she finally has her boy, as suddenly and loudly as he had torn into the world. She wants to coo and kiss and smother him with her love before the press hits and Javier shows up, as confused and hesitant as everyone in the Mercado.

Still, she’d given birth in the street, which couldn’t be clean. So, she hands him over as a doctor comes in to ask her more questions.

All the staff seem doubtful of her story and Felicita can’t blame them. She tries not to let it bother her, instead patiently waiting for the doctor to finish his checkup. He promises her that her belly will eventually shrink and she tells him a little impatiently that she’s had four children before. Once he’s gone, a nurse comes in, and she’s filling out a birth certificate with the sex listed as male.

Felicita decides she likes the name Alejandro, though tells the nurse not to write that down just yet, because she’d like to run it past her husband. She gives her what will be the baby’s last name, though, and it isn’t long after that that Felicita’s little boy, her little Alejito, is placed back in her arms for a feeding.

After the madness of it all, Felicita finds she’s still not frightened. Alejandro came into the world suddenly and noisily and despite what she’d told the nurse earlier, she’s growing very attached to the name Alejandro.

Alejandro grew in her womb suddenly, rapidly, just after she’d thought about a little boy of her own, of God _blessing_ her with a little boy of her own. Felicita stares down at her son, whispering thanks to God, not even bothered that she can’t breast feed him, because she finally _has_ him.

He has a thick head of straight black hair, though she’s sure if she lets it grow, it will curl. It makes his little forehead dark, like it couldn’t decide where his hairline should stop, and she slides a thumb over his soft, fuzzy brow affectionately. He’s only opened his eyes a few times but they’re dark chocolate, like hers. His lips stretch around the bottle, full and thick even as a little baby. He’s going to be so handsome. Her handsome little boy.

“Mi regalito,” Felicita whispers as he drains the formula, kindly mixed and warmed by the same nurse that was helping her with the birth certificate. She pitches forward, resting her nose against his forehead. “Thank you, God, for mi regalito.”

Hours later, when the sky is dark and Felicita can finally feel the exhaustion of the day creep into her bones, there’s a knock on her hospital room door. She looks up as her guest enters and she smiles upon seeing her husband.

He’s rubbing one hand over the other, work hardened fingers roughly massaging his dark knuckles. Javier barely looks at her, instead shuffling over to the little cradle close to her bed. He peers into it and Felicita’s heart swells, thinking that, perhaps, he’s finally engaged.

“I like the name Alejandro,” she murmurs.

“I didn’t know you were pregnant,” Javier mutters back. He keeps his voice low as not to disturb the slumbering baby, yet his voice is as neutral as ever. “He doesn’t look premature.”

“Javi,” Felicita says, “didn’t Carlos tell you what happened? I wasn’t pregnant.”

“That’s not possible, Felicita,” mumbles Javier, “and what would _Carlos_ know about you being pregnant or not?”

Felicita starts, staring at her husband. For the first time in a while, she hears venom in his voice. “He… He sees me. When I go to the Mercado-”

“Is that the only time he sees you?” Javier huffs, taking a step back from Alejandro and turning narrowed eyes towards Felicita. The heart monitor next to her gets a little louder, the steady beep-beep-beep getting faster.

“Where is this coming from?” Felicita asks. “You know that that’s the only time I see him.”

“Do I know that, Felicita? All I do is work. You could have another man over at any time.” Javier sneers.

“All I do is take care of the girls!” Felicita cries. “All day! Every day! I’ve never- _I wouldn’t_-”

“Then why did the girls keep going to Carlos, hm?” Javier condescendingly asks, leaning forward, lips pursing and brows raising up. “Why did they want him and not their papi?”

Felicita’s head is spinning. She can’t believe this. She can’t believe, on one of the happiest days of her life, Javier is determined to ruin it by being jealous. By being jealous of something of his own making.

“Because- B-B-B-”

“Oh, don’t start that shit, you haven’t done that in years-”

“Because they don’t know you, Javier!”

Javier jerks back like she’s slapped him and Felicita jabs while his guard is down. “The girls barely know who you are! You wanna know why they always have mamities and not papities? It’s cause you’re never home! And when you are, you’re more concerned with the paper than being with them!”

“That’s not true,” Javier quickly says, “they know I take care of them, I have to work-”

“Work isn’t everything, Javier!” Felicita snaps, “God, you’re so checked out you don’t even realize it! Instead of wondering what you’re doing wrong, you come here and accuse me of _cheating on you_-”

“I didn’t say you were-”

“You didn’t have to! You accuse me of cheating on you because the girls wanted Carlos more than you but that’s _your_ fault!”

Javier is at a loss for words, cradling his weathered hands like they’re wounded. Felicita didn’t want to lash out, didn’t aim to hurt him, but it seems she couldn’t avoid it. Not without her integrity being questioned.

“Name the boy whatever you want,” says Javier, suddenly whirling away from her, “I’m going to call the house and check on the girls.”

He doesn’t even wait for a reply and she glares after him, ignoring the first sting of tears. Her gaze flickers to Alejandro, and she guesses his name is definitely Alejandro now, curled up in his crib. He’s so tranquil, so quiet for a baby, and she rises to limp over to him.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, mijito,” she murmurs to him as she leans down, pressing little kisses to his soft face, his nose that isn’t so squished anymore and his fuzzy little forehead. “I won’t fight with your papi in front of you anymore. I promise.”

Alejandro sneezes in response and Felicita smiles, taming the tears that had threatened to fall from her eyes. It seems a little silly, maybe even a little unhealthy, but she can’t help but feel there’s no reason to be upset. Yes, she’ll have to deal with Javi later, to remind him that Alejandro is just as much his son as the girls are his daughters. But new babies are so fun and hers is a gift from _God_.

The nurse catches her standing and immediately ushers her back to her cot. You’ll have time to coddle the baby later, mami, don’t worry, she says, you have to rest.

“You lost a lot of blood, mami,” The nurse says, tucking the stiff hospital blankets around her legs. “Tú hijito isn’t going anywhere.”

Felicita’s lips curve and purse, and she’s right. No matter what Javi thinks, no matter what the world thinks, her little boy isn’t going anywhere. He’s going to stay right there, with her, so she nods along, finding her eyes growing heavier and heavier as the nurse adjusts the tube they have needled into her vein. She should probably tell her his name, for the certificate. She finds her mouth does not want to work, and it isn’t long before she’s asleep, dreaming of God, and his merciful hand.

* * *

Felicita wakes up later to the sound of the hospital. Were it not for the odor of alcohol, for the squeaky white walls that are almost too bright as she awakens, she would have forgotten where she was. Never her Alejito, though, who she dreamt of, tall and broad and older, a man between his sisters.

Reaching up to rub at her bleary eye, the sheets sift around her body, that had tossed and turned in her sleep. The scrape of her leg hair against the inside of the scratchy cotton is unpleasant as Felicita slowly takes in her other surroundings, eyes drifting to where Alejito’s cradle is.

Was.

The cradle’s not there.

Felicita sits bolt upright. Her body lags, trying to catch up with the sudden pump of adrenaline in her veins, with the sound of the heart monitor going beepbeepbeep at her right. Her hand darts to the left, where the remote to call for the nurse sits idly, and she taps the button as though she means to break it.

The minutes it takes for the girl that helped her earlier only set Felicita more on edge. The door handle twists open and the girl that Felicita cannot remember the name of does not look at her as she shuffles in.

“Where is Alejandro?” She asks, expecting the young lady to answer kindly. Only taken for more testing, she’ll say, we didn’t want to wake you. Oh, down to the nursery, we wanted to socialize him with the other babies.

Instead, the girl says nothing, eyes trained on her too white tennis shoes.

“Young lady,” she hisses, “I asked you a question.”

“I’ll call your husband,” the nurse replies instead of answering her and before Felicita can shout, she turns on her heel and bustles out of the room.

Felicita is left once again in the too quiet room. Left with only her thoughts, with the way her heart sounds like symbols in her ears, her leg bounces as she sits upright.

The door creaks open and through the crack, Javier slips inside. He looks cleaner than he did earlier, hair slicked back instead of disheveled, work hardened hands cleaned with- something. She doesn’t care either way.

“Where’s Alejandro?” Felicita asks. Javier doesn’t answer her, instead closing the door with not so much as a click. He stares at her impassively as he strides over, looming at her bedside like a monster emerged from the shadows and for the first time in a very, very long time, Felicita is truly frightened. “Javier, where is our son?”

“That _thing_ was not my son, Felicita,” Javier replies and Felicita’s breath is coming in shallower, quicker. She tries to right herself, to stop the onslaught of spots in her vision.

“He is a little baby boy that came out of me. You’re my husband. He is your son.” She says.

“No. It wasn’t a little boy, Felicita, it was a demon. The doctors said you were right – there was no possible way you could have been pregnant this morning.” He says and he believes her now, but he called Alejandro a demon.

“He’s not a demon,” she pants, trying to swing her legs off the edge. “He’s a blessing. I prayed to God for him.”

“And the devil begot it,” Javier sniffs as Felicita’s head spins. “Took advantage of your naïve mind. I would-”

“Javier, where is my baby? Where is my son?” Vaguely, Felicita is aware that the pitch of her voice has risen, that she has begun to shout. Javier reaches out, his calloused knuckles brushing her cheekbone, and she leans away from him.

“A man came,” he finally says, “and offered to take the evil from us.”

“No!” She cries, standing, and her eyes darken at the edges as her bare feet hit the cold floor. “No! Where is my baby?! What have you done with my baby?!”

“Shhh, Felicita,” he soothes as she begins to weep, collecting her into his strong arms. “Ya, mi amor. I got rid of it. I understand now why you said all those things. The devil had you. He will never have you again.”

“_My baby!_” Felicita screams, pounding her fists on Javier’s chest, vision growing dark at the edges. The last thing she sees before she finally succumbs to the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her ears ring and her eyes itchy with sticky tears, is Javier’s too clean hands that have never been dirtier.

* * *

Days later, Felicita is released from the hospital. She doesn’t speak to the nurses, or the doctors, though none meet her eye or try to get her to speak anyway. Javier picks her up, wheels her to the car at dusk and returns the wheelchair the doctor’s insisted he take her out in. She settles against the open window and watches the sky.

Brilliant oranges and reds swim into her vision and she leaves the window down as they drive, chin in her palm as the world goes by. The start of winter in Mexico makes her skin pimple as the breeze caresses her hair as she blinks at the sun.

Her fingers cover her mouth, free hand sitting idly in her lap as Javi drives. Neither of them say anything, Javier’s eyes on the road and Felicita’s on the sky, thinking about God, and her girls, and her beautiful little boy. She reaches down, pumping the handle that closes the window before turning her eyes towards the long stretch of road that will lead them home.

Javier reaches over, placing his hand over hers, callouses brushing her smooth knuckles. Her gaze stays on the road, turning her palm up to tangle her fingers with his.

“I hate you,” she says. Javier doesn’t reply. He puts his hand back on the wheel and they drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mercado - Market.  
Marchanes - Merchants.  
Bendiciones - Blessings.  
Mami - Mommy.  
Papi - Daddy.  
Callate - Shut up.  
Carrito - Cart used to carry groceries/Literally 'little car'.  
Mamities - When a child is extremely attached to their mother.  
Papities - When a child is extremely attached to their father.  
Señor/Señora - Mister/Miss/Sir/Ma'am.  
Mijas/Mijitas - My daughters.  
Mi regalito - My little gift.  
Mijito - My son.  
Tu hijito - Your son.  
Ya, mi amor - Relax, my love.

**Author's Note:**

> so i know the woman in the first few minutes of the show isn't confirmed to be any of the hargreeves mom--but i figured if it was gonna show one of their biological moms on screen it would either be luther because he's number one or vanya because she's the most powerful. i chose luther to keep this fic mostly chronological. 
> 
> comment below what you guys think of ivana: she's a lil dramatic but so is luther, so go figure. do y'all think she was right to not want baby luther? or should she have given him more of a chance? 
> 
> also could you imagine if luther was named aleksei? i'm cackling


End file.
